A Brush with the Justice System

Last month I received my first jury summons in my adult life. Ironic in that only weeks before I had remarked to some friends that I'd never received such a notice.
Can't say I was thrilled - having heard plenty of unpleasant and negative experiences from those who have served. But I was actually thinking it would be interesting to serve on a jury. Despite yesterday - a day I consider "wasted" in most regards - I still feel the same way.
Cumbersome. That's the best word I can come up with to describe the way the jury selection system works.
First step in the process is to call the designated number prior to answering the summons to find out if you even need to report, or if the case(s) have been settled out of court. My number (F19) was designated to report.
Early Monday morning I made my way to the Seminole County Criminal Justice Building, through security to the Jury Assembly room. Fortunately my knitting needles didn't qualify as weapons, though my opened bottle of water was suspect. "Take a sip," the security officer directed. I guess if I'd poisoned my own water I wouldn't comply and that would be grounds for action.
By 8:00 150-200 citizens were gathered - most armed with reading material and/or electronic devices, obviously preparing to wait. First order of business was the Juror's Oath. Enmass we raised our right hands and agreed to render a true and honest verdict, to the best of our ability. Then some logistical instructions from the clerk followed by a 15-minute video extolling the advantages of the jury system. This would be 8th grade civics material, if they still taught civics in the public schools - but that's another issue.
Shortly after 9:00 one of the judges arrived to qualify the jurors. It soon became clear that behind the robes was a real person with a sense of humor and sympathy for the less-than-streamlined process we were part of.
The bar for serving as a juror is actually set pretty low: You must be a U.S. citizen, be able to read, write, speak and understand  basic English; have no physical or mental infirmities that would render you unable to serve, and no outstanding charges or convictions that restrict your civil rights. Then the exemptions are considered. Individuals over 70 are exempt if desired. Judge Collins says she has never had anyone over 70 refuse to serve. What does that say about our senior citizens? They've got time, perhaps. I suspect it's a stronger sense of civic duty than a younger generation. Primary caregivers for children or the aged/infirm are also exempt from service. Surprisingly few in the room claim or are granted legitimate exemptions. 
Having determined that we're all qualified to serve, the clerk explains what is to take place throughout the day. Four or five judges are seating jury panels. We will be called by our juror numbers to a designated court room where we may be questioned as to our ability to render an unbiased verdict in a case. After three such calls, my number was called. The 25-30 of us with F and L numbers trek to the 5th floor courtroom of Judge Nelson. Here we meet the state's attorneys and the defendant and his attorney. The judge calls out names, randomly, to fill the 21 seats in the jury box. Mine is not called.
But now, things do begin to get more interesting. In the voir dire, the prosecuting attorney questions potential jurors about their occupations and that of their spouse and any adult children; whether they have been the victim of a crime or they or any close relatives have been arrested. If so, would they be able to set aside their feelings from that experience and render an impartial verdict? Mentally, I begin ticking off those I think most likely not to be selected - those with family histories of run ins with the law - despite their assurances that they would be able to set aside their feelings and render an unbiased decision. I'm sure they would like to think they could do so, but if I'm an attorney, I'm going to take my chances with someone who has less likelihood of bringing past experiences and prejudices to the decision of guilt or innocence.
This takes the better part of an hour. As the noon hour approaches we are all asked to step outside while the attorneys confer. Just before noon, we're called back into the courtroom; seven individuals are called forward; they constitute the jury for the felony charges. The rest of us are dismissed for lunch and directed to report to the assembly room after noon hour.
And that's about as interesting as it got. The afternoon drug on. Despite the promise of free wi fi, I was never able to connect so was limited to knitting and audio book. Note to self - next time take more reading material. At one point we were advised that there were still 2-3 panels to seat, be prepared for a late afternoon. Shortly after that, the clerk announced that all but 30 could be dismissed. Fortunately, I was among the dismissed and was back home by 4:30.
Is there a more efficient, streamlined method to select a jury? It certainly seems like there should be, given all the technology available today. While our system of justice is not perfect - it is a human system, after all - I'll take it over the alternative any day. And the day wasn't a complete waste. I made good progress on my knitting project.

Forty & Counting

Forty years ago today a couple of scared, starry-eyed kids walked down the aisle of a soon-to-be demolished church in Ocheyedan, Iowa and said their "I dos." For richer or poorer has seemed to be mostly poorer, but in the things that matter--faith and family--immensely rich. In sickness and health has been graciously healthy and the sickness--secondary infertility, the recent bout with prostate cancer, and the increasing aches and pains of aging--only make us more appreciative of what has been a relatively pain/disease-free life.  The phrase I so naively added to our vows - wherever your labors may take you  (a pretty acquiescent addition in the midst of the feminist movement) has taken us places I would not have imagined. For  better or worse has turned out to be mostly better and the worse has made us stronger.
 Today we had planned to celebrate with a deep sea fishing outing. Unfortunately, tropical storm Beryl had other plans. It was to be one of the rare occasions we planned to do something special on our actual anniversary. Oh well, by now we've learned to roll with the punches and will look forward to extending the celebration. After all, marking 40 years together is worth more than a one-day celebration.

A Bump in the Road

Last week, the PC acronym took on a different meaning for me. Bob came home with the results of a recent biopsy: Prostate Cancer.

            In the month since the procedure, the initial follow up appointment was rescheduled due to an emergency in the doctor’s office. We learned that the results of these procedures are not given to the patient over the phone. But, should there be reason for concern, an appointment would be scheduled right away.

            I wondered what amount of cancer cells constitutes reason for concern. Perhaps to medical specialists, this was not cause for concern. But for us, who had been living under the assumption that no news was good news, it was disconcerting. Apparently, even the doctor wasn’t expecting this result. His comments during the procedure led us to believe that Bob might well receive a clean bill of health. But such is not the case.

            In the days between the diagnosis and our meeting with the radiologist to determine the best course of treatment, I did what any sane, caring wife would do. I did an Internet search for prostate cancer.  I avoided the “miracle cure” sites and opted for legitimate medical sites. As it turns out, my husband joins the majority of the male population. According to some statistics, more than 80 percent of men will eventually be diagnosed with prostate cancer. When diagnosis occurs later in life, when men are in their 70s or 80s, it is seldom treated because it is a slow-growing cancer that is rarely life threatening.

            Still, the thought of cancer cells multiplying anywhere in my husband’s body and threatening his health brings home those random concerns about our mortality. That occasional stray thought, “what would I do, where would I go if, God forbid, something were to happen to him,” is now more than a distant possibility. It may be a reality that we need to face sooner rather than later. At the very least, perhaps we need to be having more than flippant conversations about end-of-life decisions. Maybe we really do need to update our decades-old wills.

            I also shared our news with a limited number of friends—women I know I can trust to keep a confidence and uphold us in prayer. Just being able to say the words and explain what we know about the options helps me acknowledge the reality.

            My usually stoic husband contacted a colleague who had the same diagnosis in recent years.

            “What’s your Gleason score?” he asked.
            It’s a new language we’re learning. Prostate-Specific Antigen (PSA) levels, cancer stages, Gleason scores, and treatment options. Somehow, learning to speak it is therapeutic in an odd sort of way. Knowing someone who has faced the decisions that he’s facing, as well weighing their possible side effects is the real therapy. We’re not the first couple to face this. And the odds that we may come through this only slightly worse for the worry and concern are looking better.

            The meeting with the radiologist is surprisingly relaxed and very informative. Time seems of no concern to him as he reviews the various treatments, their historical results and anticipated side effects. Surgery, proton treatment, radiation, radioactive seeds—all have their advantages and disadvantages. But what is best in this particular situation? We come away satisfied that we have the information we need to make the best decision for him—for us. He will undergo 6-7 weeks of 5 day/week radiation treatments.

            Preparation for radiation involves placing a number of gold markers in the prostate to insure that the radiation beams hit their marks. I suggest that we tell folks, “we invested in gold this week and have hidden it someplace it will never be found.” I'm not sure that comment should be repeated in polite company, but Bob appreciated the humor. And that, along with prayers for complete eradication of those cancerous cells, is my most fervent prayer—that the man who has been my life companion for nearly 40 years, retains not only his health, but his healthy sense of humor and generous, selfless spirit.
            Now, nearly two weeks after diagnosis, we’re approaching the next few months of treatment as a bump in the road—grateful for an early diagnosis and a highly treatable form of cancer. Despite the report from the U.S. Preventative Task Force this week questioning the reliability and possible overuse of the PSA test, every woman should encourage the men she cares about to get their PSA levels checked.

A Lighter Shade of Pale

Who would have thought there good be so many shades of one color? Anyone who has spent anytime in the paint section of home improvement story lately.

I/we are slowly moving toward a major painting project that we've talked, but done little about for 2+ years--for several reasons. The area in question is about 2/3 of our house and the primary living area, including the kitchen/family room. It's not that I spend an inordinate amount of time in the kitchen, but just thinking about the disarray that painting induces, gives me a headache. So there's that. And the fact that these areas are part of a large open floor plan that has no clear beginning and ending spots. So once we begin, it's all or nothing. Reason #1 to put it off.

The other reason has been not knowing what color to paint it. Currently, it's the safe beige that contractors spray on everything they build. I'm ready to put my own color/personality on it, but what? I thought I had finally hit on the perfect shade of yellow to perk things up a bit, but not overpower. But alas, the sample is just not what I thought it was going to be. So three samples and swatch-marked walls later, I think I've decided on two complementary shades - Bonnie Cream and Whisper Yellow...or was it Gold Buttercup? And how much do they pay someone to come up with these color names? I think the painting may actually be the easy part!

Withdrawal, Addiction & Lent

I'm going through withdrawal. Oh, not the physical/substance abuse/addiction kind of withdrawal. A more mental/emotional withdrawal. I've recently wrapped up two major projects that have had me running at about 110 percent since the beginning of the year. (Hence the lack of posts in recent months.) They say at a certain point in a run, runners reach a high, when they are operating at their optimum. I don't ever expect to experience a runners high, but I have to admit, there's a certain adrenaline rush I get from being productively busy. 

 

This week I'm re-adjusting to a slower pace and asking myself, "What idol makes me crave such busyness?" I might argue it's my servant-hearted attitude - that when something needs doing, and I feel I have the ability to do it, it doesn't feel right to say no. But I wonder if there's something else. If success, being needed and acknowledged for my gifts aren't the gods that drive me to action?  

Today is the first day of Lent. I've never practiced Lent in the traditional Catholic practice of giving something up in preparation for Easter. But I do expect to use this time to reflect and take stock. In doing so I hope to gain a clear sense of God's direction for the coming months.

A New Christmas Tradition

One of Bob's family's Christmas traditions is making Tukare - or meat pies. It's a French-Canadian recipe handed down from his dad's family. Their recipe uses ground pork and boiled and mashed potatoes, seasoned with spices not typically associated (in my mind) with meat: cinnamon, allspice, and cloves. Given the unusual combination of ingredients, meat pie is definitely an acquired taste. Even after 30 some years, none of our children have acquired it.
In years past, my mother-in-law and her sister set aside an evening and a day a few weeks before Christmas for assembling 12-18 pies. They froze them, then thawed and reheated them for Christmas morning. Any family and friends that were around were welcome to stop by for a piece. I found it interesting that my mother-in-law remained so committed to a tradition that had come from her husband's family - especially interesting that when she remarried the step family adopted it, too.
I attempted to make my first pies 10-15 years ago and have made them sporadically since then, more consistently since we moved away from family. I've never been quite as enamored of them as Bob and his family are, but I tried to play the good wife and acquiesce to the tradition. This  year, as I'm juggling three part-time jobs, it seemed only right that the one who is so committed to carrying on the tradition have a hand - if not his entire body - in seeing to it that there were meat pies in the Hagey home this year. To my surprise, he consented with little resistance. And so it was - that last weekend found Bob cooking, peeling, mashing, simmering, assembling, and baking the infamous tukare. I have a hunch he might just find these the best he's ever tasted! What a great tradition!

The Face of Homelessness

Yesterday I saw the faces of homelessness in east Orlando. They did not look the way I expected them to.
Every Saturday, our church, University Presbyterian, provides breakfast in the park for homeless people, through its Manna Ministry. Our small group volunteered to help this week. I expected the group would be primarily men--it was; older--it wasn't; unkempt--some were, but by no means all. I'm not entirely sure how I expected them to look. I guess I assumed it would be obvious by their attire and demeanor that these folks were down and out. But it wasn't. Yes, some had obviously not had access to a shower for several days, perhaps weeks. But the majority actually appeared pretty put together.
I did not expect to see a young couple with a baby, a young bare-chested man, barely 20, a young attractive woman who could have been a coed sporting the latest grunge wear. She told us she works part-time at a local university, only recently got a telephone and has no means of transportation. I'm not sure all these folks are homeless in the sense they have no permanent address or a place to sleep at night, but obviously, they are marginalized. If not homeless, living on the edge. Each must have their own unique story of misfortune, poor choices, or the impact of the recession on their life.
I have not really stopped to analyze my motivation for helping yesterday. Our pastor has been preaching a series of sermons on living missionally - actually living out the gospel. A few weeks ago, in a message on social justice, he made the point that guilt is really not an effective, long-term motivator for getting involved in issues of social justice. Most of us will soon weary of doing good only out of guilt. Gratitude, he said, is a much more effective motivator. Gratitude for God's grace and mercy in our own lives ought to prompt us to share the blessings of life in Christ with those around us. If I'd done much thinking at all about my motivation before yesterday I think I saw my involvement as a feeble effort to be Jesus to people who needed a tangible demonstration of a loving God.  I hope they saw and heard that in my service.

What the people we served yesterday likely don't know is the impact they had on me. I saw Jesus in them. Jesus told a would-be follower, "Foxes have holes and birds have nests, but I have nowhere to lay my head." Forget creature comforts if you're going to be my disciple. Ouch... because it's my creature comforts that keep me from totally relying on and trusting God  - not just for my next meal, but for the very air I breathe. But the folks I served yesterday - at the end of their resources - are utterly dependent on the grace of God, rendered through the kindness of others. Maybe learning - and relearning that lesson -  is sufficient motivation to continue serving the least of these.